For Lady

 

A song rises in me

for a distant lady in yellowed splendor

happy to be singing love songs

for him -- and you. I hum a hymn of hope

yet know each time you carry

her mate from windowed wait

to be caged alone for sleep,

your breath rises and goes deep

in loss.

 

Somehow you know

your own flitting

across meadows bathed

in morning sun

can never be the same. Why

is it even a tiny connection lost,

feathered and on the wing,

creates emptiness, deep pain

windows and meadows filled with sun

cannot undo again?

                               Timothy Pilgrim